Missing
by Svetlanacat
Summary: "To die and part is a less evil; but to part and live, there, there is the torment." George Lansdowne. Part 15. Complete... but not really. Sequel coming, soon.
1. Chapter 1

Uncle agents rarely wandered through the streets in the daytime unless they looked for somebody or tailed him. Illya Kuryakin paused on the sidewalk, his back to Del Floria's, lost in thought. He loosened his tie, looked up at the sky and took some steps forward.

_-You should go for a stroll, Mr. Kuryakin. It's no use you staying there today. We'll have to talk about the future, tomorrow._

It had been hardly a suggestion.

The Old Man was obviously ill at ease, as the Russian seated himself in his office.

He had commented on his report, as usual, had asked about one or two points, as usual, and eventually had closed the file. Illya Kuryakin had fulfilled his assignment, the mission had been a success. As he spoke, Alexander Waverly had stared at his desk, at his pipe, at the sheets of paper. Occasionally, his gaze had met the blond agent's. Instantaneously, he had averted his eyes.

Then, a heavy silence.

Alexander Waverly hadn't dismissed him, neither with words, nor with a gesture. He hadn't either buried himself in the reading of another file, making it clear to anyone that the discussion was closed.

Illya Kuryakin had felt uncomfortable. Everybody had acted normally, except for the Old Man.

He knew so well the receptionist's sorry look, the sadly compassionate smiles; that led always to bad news: a partner in trouble, a partner seriously injured, a partner dying. The receptionist in charge had greeted him quite warmly, as usual. Everything had gone well until he had entered Waverly's office.

Finally, Illya Kuryakin had stood up, as if he was about to leave.

-Please, sit down, Mr Kuryakin.

The Russian had obeyed. This time, Alexander Waverly had looked at him. And he had uttered those astounding words.

-I am thinking of changes, concerning Section 2, Mr Kuryakin.

Changes? What changes? Illya Kuryakin had just opened his mouth, but the Old Man had shaken his head.

-As the Section 2, number 2, you are...

The Russian had frozen.

-You are Mr Solo's designate successor. Unless you refuse, from now, you are our new CEA, Section 2, number 1.

-Na..Napoleon? Sir?

He had babbled. Alexander Waverly had looked at him with concern.

-Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin, is fine. He went back from his assignment eight days ago. He is officially on leave. But...

It had cost Illya Kuryakin a great effort not to leap at his superior's throat. Alexander Waverly had obviously noticed his agent's tension. He had sighed, stood up, and come up to him. Napoleon had decided to leave the Uncle. He had resigned, five days ago, and he was gone.

-Nobody knows, Mr Kuryakin. I wanted you to be told about, first.

-Why? I have to talk with him! I...

-You won't. Mr Solo is gone. He has left New-York, and we'll have to respect his wishes. He made his position clear. He doesn't want to hear of Uncle anymore. You asked why? I can't tell you. I am sorry.

Alexander Waverly had put his hand on the Russian's shoulder.

-You should go for a stroll, Mr. Kuryakin. It's no use you staying there today. We'll have to talk about the future, tomorrow.

He walked aimlessly. His partner was missing. He wasn't in trouble. He wasn't injured. He wasn't even dead. He was gone, simply gone.

Napoleon had left the Uncle. He had left New-York. Not a word.

Why? "I can't tell you." Alexander Waverly's words.

Why?

Missing.


	2. Chapter 2: Napoleon's place

Illya Kuryakin was going where his steps took him; he looked lost in thought but he felt devoid of all feeling, he felt like blank. It wasn't true. One feeling remained: he had been betrayed. An unbearable betrayal.

They were partners, and they were friends.

Two years ago, Alexander Waverly had started to part them, giving them solo assignments, or with a junior agent. More and more often, the Old Man had delegated Napoleon to attend important meetings. Napoleon Solo, the obvious Waverly's designate successor! Nevertheless, they were still partners, still friends, close friends. They trusted each other.

No: they had been partners. « Had been ». Friends?

Betrayed.

He could have walked for hours, for a few minutes, he didnt know. He looked around him. Raising his eyes, he recognized Napoleon's home. Bitter memories. He had felt betrayed, abandoned. He felt still betrayed, and angry. He steadied his breath, making his way to the well known apartment.

He paused outside the door. An efficient, well trained Uncle agent locks his door. This one was open.

The apartment was in a mess. Boxes everywhere, cases, thrash cans. Illya Kuryakin stood in the middle of the room, uncharacteristically indecisive. A dishevelled, casually dressed Napoleon Solo went out the kitchen, holding a box. As he acknowledged the visitor, Napoleon Solo sighed a smile. He left the box on the couch and wiped his hands on his pants. He pointed his chin at the boxes, the piles, the cases.

-What a mess! I stored up so many things! I don't know what to do with that. Oh, Illya, do you need some plates?

He was smiling, genuinely. The Russian was taken aback. Plates?

-Napoleon, what do you...? Why?

Napoleon Solo frowned; shrugging his shoulders, he looked now aggravated, as a grown-up facing a dense child.

-Why? I am leaving, Illya. That's all! Working for the Uncle was pleasant, at first, but I was getting bored. So, I leave.

-But...

-But what? You'll be promoted, I'll live a new life, everything is...

-What new life, Napoleon? What happened? Why didn't you tell me? We could have talked...

Napoleon Solo cut in scornfully.

-That, my little Russian friend, that is none of your business.

And he dropped the box on the floor.

Illya Kuryakin paused outside the door. He leaned back against the door, amazingly out of breath. The door was locked. He knocked. No answer. He had the key...

The apartment was empty, absolutely empty. Every step echoed. There were walls, floor, doors... Nothing else. The apartment was clean. No papers, no dust. Illya Kuryakin checked all the rooms. All were empty, impersonal. Except for the kitchen. On the floor, he noticed a glass, and a bottle: vodka. No message, just one glass and vodka, as a cruel, ironical legacy. He gripped the bottle and threw it against the wall.

Illya Kuryakin paused outside the door. He had already found himself in very dangerous situation, non of which equaling what he was about to do now. The door was locked. He knocked. No answer. He had the key...

The apartment was obviously desert, and absolutely tidy, clean. Everything in the right place it belonged. Illya Kuryakin checked all the rooms; all were tidy, clean, and desert. Every suit, every tie, every glass in its place. A strange universe. Nobody lived there. It looked like a model Solo's apartment. But it was lifeless, soulless.

He looked for a trace, a message, a clue and didn't find anything. Napoleon Solo wasn't gone. He hadn't packed up. He simply was not here any more. In a blink of an eye.

He didn't feel betrayed.

He wasn't angry.

He was alone.  
Illya Kuryakin, now Section 2, number 1, the new CEA.

No.

Alexander Waverly sat down, clasping his hands. He couldn't delude himself. Napoleon solo had left the Uncle, simply, almost casually.

It could have been a very bad joke, ant it was not.


	3. Chapter 3: Partners?

Life went on again as before. Illya Kuryakin had eventually accepted to act as the CEA. Reluctantly and for awhile.

It felt weird.

Everybody missed Napoleon Solo. It wasn't an emptiness, it was a gap. All of them had been used to talk, to banter with him. Some of them had worked with him, investigated, fought, succeeded, rarely failed. Some of them had been use to drink, to have dinner with him. Once, twice a day, there was a gap, in everyone's life.

Except for one man. It felt weird.

Illya Kuryakin went on again, as if nothing had happened. He talked, he worked with his fellow agents. He never said a word about his ex-partner.

It felt weird, and it was uncomfortable. Did the word « friend » make sens to him?

Some people argued that the Russian wasn't of the emotional kind. Others frowned dubiously.

Alexander Waverly worried.

Of course, Illya Kuryakin could have left Uncle, too. He wasn't one to break down, but he could have withdrawn into himself, lost for Uncle. It didn't happen; nevertheless, Alexander Waverly worried; He had expected questions. The Russian hadn't asked anything about Napoleon Solo, neither why he had left, nor where he was. Since, he had never said a word about his ex-partner.

Illya Kuryakin was, unexpectedly, the same Illya Kuryakin as before. Brilliant, efficient; With a hint of human warmth. A damned good CEA.

A lie. It was a lie.

Amazingly, coping with work, at the HQ had been easy.  
He concentrated himself on people, on assignments. He planned, he gave advice, he fulfilled his own missions, he reported to Alexander Waverly. Keeping his agents alive, keeping the world safe were full a full time employment. He had ignored the compassionate looks, the inquiring tones. Those who slightly tapped on his shoulder. Those who slightly brushed past him. He had now to ignore some reproachful eyes, some frowning faces. He could cope with it. He could cope with Waverly's piercing gaze. He knew he did not fool him, but he would not give rise to any comment.

It was a lie, an exhausting one. He stared up at the ceiling. He would never come back to his country. He would not be welcome, and, anyway he didn't want to go back. He had heard them: « Does the term « friend » make any sense to him? » Illya Kuryakin sat straight and sneered bitterly. Of course, he knew the meaning of this term. Friend. Apparently, however, it didn't make any sense to Napoleon Solo.

At home, he couldn't lie any more. He remembered his last visit to his part... to Napoleon Solo's apartment. In a blink of an eye, he had imagined, he had seen so many scenes. Napoleon packing up, ignoring him. The apartment absolutely empty. The apartment desert. But he didn't know. He had stretched his hand towards the door, and heard Waverly's words. « Respect his wish ».

And he had run away. The following morning, he had left Napoleon's key in a drawer.

Everything would fade with time.

He could look for him. He could track him. They knew each other so well; the hunter and the prey. All their tricks. But for good Napoleon Solo was at drawing a red herring across his trail, Illya Kuryakin would track him down. Sooner or later.

He had the skill, he had the power, but he would not. He wasn't sulking. He didn't bear a grudge.

His « friend » had left Uncle. He had reasons to do so. He didn't tell anyone about it. He didn't tell him. He had reasons to do so. Alexander Waverly knew. « Respect his wish. »

But what if he was wrong?

_-Illya! Illya! I know you are here. Open that door, immediately._

_Napoleon Solo was banging at the door. He was shouting._

_He would not open._

_-Illya!_

_The tone was harsh. He would not open. How his partner had tracked him down, he didn't know. But the man couldn't be sure. He was bluffing._

_Then, the silence. He had stopped hammering at the door, he had stopped yelling. Perhaps he was gone. Illya Kuryakin was sitting on the floor. He wrapped his arms around his legs and leaned his forehead against his knees. Eventually, his « partner » had given up._

_A part of him knew that he was not really to be blamed. Not really: dampness, delay, bad luck. And his lack of experience. Someone died. The mission had been a success, they have got the formula, but an innocent died. Napoleon Solo had cursed, and muttered something: « ... should have been quicker. » He was right, the young Russian should have been quicker, more reactive. Then, his partner had kept silent. A heavy silence. Alexander Waverly had frowned, sighed, and dismissed them. No blame, just a reproaching look._

_The door flew open. Napoleon Solo rushed in the bedroom, obviously infuriated. He stopped in front of him._

_-Get out._

_He had just raised his head, and whispered. Napoleon stood above him, with his arms folded._

_-Tell me something, first._

_He leaned back his forehead against his knees._

_-Waverly found your letter, Illya. He is mad at you, and so am I! I want you to tell me why you ran away._

_He wouldn't answer, just hissing again._

_-Get out._

_He was motionless, his face pressed on his knees. He heard a rustle, and felt the light contact of a shoulder brushing against his own. Then, nothing, just this presence._

_-I don't need any sympathy. You know what happened. You made you position clear, and you were right._

_-He tore your letter into pieces. My actual assignment, Illya, is to bring you back to the HQ. « Use all possible means. ». The Old Man's words. I hate failure._

_-Yes, you do. I should have been quicker, and..._

_-**WE **should have been quicker, Illya. And I was wrong. There was nothing we could do to save this man's life. It's no use you punishing yourself_.

They had talked, all the night. He had come back to the Uncle HQ, Alexander Waverly had taken notice of his presence, without commenting. When Illya Kuryakin had whispered a « Thank you », Napoleon Solo had chuckled: « That's what a partner is here for, Illya. »

He was an Uncle agent for less than one year. A Russian rookie. Napoleon Solo's partner. He could accept failure, but he could not accept an innocent's death. He was determined to disappear. Another life, somewhere, neither in Russia, nor in the US.

His partner, his friend had looked for him, found him, scolded him, taken him back « home ».

It was different. Nothing had happened. Napoleon's last assignment had been perfectly fulfilled. No problem. Napoleon Solo had left Uncle. It was his choice. « Respect his wish. »

But what if he was wrong? What if his friend needed him?


	4. Chapter 4: That's the question

He sighed, screwed the sheet of paper and threw it away. Looking down at the floor, he shrugged his shoulders: writing? Why? He had resigned from the Uncle. Officially. He was free. Alexander Waverly had listened at him, frowned, but understood his position. He was about to leave this apartment, this town, definitely. Illya would come there, as soon as he would know. Napoleon Solo grabbed a new sheet of paper, and wrote a word. A single word. Bye! It was mean, cruel, selfish. It would hurt his friend. Illya would be wild with anger. Napoleon Solo was about to blast their friendship: Illya would feel betrayed, despised. So, he wouldn't try to track him.

The dark haired man looked out of the window. There was a very fine view of the town, by night. In the daylight... Napoleon Solo froze. A familiar silhouette, walking along the sidewalk. He sneered. Damned old fox! Illya was back, already, and Waverly had sent him there. It was too late. Napoleon Solo picked up all the papers on the floor, and prepared himself to face his part... ex-partner.

Illya knocked at the door. Napoleon Solo sighed, and grabbed his case. His friend knocked again. Again. The door flew open. A pale Russian rushed into the room. He was obviously abashed, not really angry. He stopped, as he saw his friend, looking at him up and down. His gaze came to the case; he smiled. Bitterly, sadly.

-Why, Napoleon?

Napoleon Solo kept silent.

-Why? Could you tell me why? Why you leave? At least, why you run off like a thief?

_I can't tell you, Illya. I can't. _He took a deep breath, and replied, scornfully.

-That, my little Russian friend, that is none of your business!

Illya knocked at the door. Napoleon Solo sighed. He didn't move, he didn't answer. His friend knocked again. Eventually, the door flew open. A pale Russian rushed into the room, and stopped just in front of him. Sad blue eyes looked at him inquiringly. He pointed at the case with his hand.

-Why, Napoleon?

Napoleon Solo kept silent.

-Why? Could you tell me why? Why you leave? At least, why you run away from me like a thief?

_I can't tell you, Illya. I can't. _Napoleon Solo smiled faintly. He knew what he should have said, some cruel words. He couldn't. Illya Kuryakin took a step forward. They were close, very close.

-Tell me. Please, tell me!

-You are such a coward, Napoleon!

Nothing. Where was Illya? Napoleon Solo listened intently. He walked on tiptoe towards the door. Someone was panting, outside. Choking. Illya. Then, suddenly, footsteps, hurried, growing fainter. Illya was running away. He had given up. Bye!

-You'll have to choose another CEA, sir.

Alexander Waverly had no idea what Illya kuryakin meant, and he stared at his agent inquiringly.

-Why, Mr Kuryakin? You are actually doing well, and...

And you took aver Napoleon Solo very efficiently. He couldn't say that, although he read in the blue eyes that Illya Kuryakin knew exactly what he had been about to say.

-And you are tp be commended.

It was right. The young Russian was proving he was up to the job. Predictably enough, thought Alexander Waverly. Unexpectedly, according some other people. Being CEA asked a lot of anyone. Waverly knew that it asked more and more of this young man, but it was worth the effort.

-Why?

Illya Kuryakin sighed. He had more than one answer.

Being self sufficient had made his life easier for years. You trusted yourself. You could make the wrong decision, the only one you could blame would be yourself. You were not held to account for anything, and you did not call anyone to account for having done this or that.

As an Uncle agent, as Napoleon Solo's partner, he had given up even the idea.

Then, you trusted your partner, until you had no more partner, whatever the reason. He could not fill his own emptiness, and he was asked to fill their. He was not able to cope with that much longer.

He chose his most pragmatic reason.

-Everybody knows that the CEA is the Section 1, Number 1's logical successor, and lats year, sir, you got Napoleon used to your job, didn't you?

Alexander Waverly faintly smiled. The Russian's reasoning was interesting.

-You are right, Mr Kuryakin. Ideally, Mr Solo was about to be, one day, the Section 1, number 1. And, you, probably, his CEA.

Ideally?

The voice betrayed a bitter amusement. Arguing about ideal wasn't Waverly's purpose.

-Logically.

-But things had changed, sir.

Yes, thought Alexander Waverly. Things had changed. At least, one: his CEA had resigned, he had left Uncle. They need a new one. This young man was quite qualified.

-Napoleon was a logical, an ideal – and the Russian smiled – successor. I am not. I can't be.

There was no need to develop; Alexander Waverly puffed his pipe and leaned over his desk.

-It would be an amazing challenge, Mr Kuryakin.

There were mischievous twinkles in his eyes. Illya Kuryakin couldn't help laughing at the idea.

-A Russian, sir? A more or less ex-Soviet citizen heading up the Uncle? It would not be a challenge, it would be a ... nightmare!

Sitting down on his couch, he tried to concentrate on the book he held, but finally gave up. His apartment was strangely cold. Was it? Probably not. He was safe, here. Safely free to think , to keep silent, safely alone. But he felt insecure.

Alexander Waverly had listened to him, intently, but without really arguing. Not good. He had joked about his succession, and suddenly postponed the discussion, indefinitely. Politely, but firmly. And he had dismissed his CEA.

It asked a lot of him. It asked too much. Alexander Waverly knew it, probably. Days, months flew away. Illya Kuryakin played his part, and he played it well; But he felt exhausted. He applied himself to acting normally, with everybody: his fellow agents, his superior. Even his enemies. During his last mission, a thrush man had asked him a stunning question. He had ignored him. He had eventually defeated his opponent. As the Uncle agents were taking him away, the Thrush man had asked again. The same question. He had ignored him again, feeling all the other agents' looks. Thrush had got rid of Napoleon Solo, and tried to test Illya Kuryakin's nerves. That was fair enough! Although, fairness and Thrush...

Today, today some one had asked the same question.

-Have you heard of Mr Solo, recently?

The same precise words. As he was about to leave the Old Man's office, Alexander Waverly had motioned him to stop, looked at him, and asked him, with a suppressed voice.

-Have you heard of Mr Solo, recently?

No, no, he had not! He had kept silent, just shaking his head, expecting something. But Alexander Waverly had frowned and immersed himself in a file.

And all he had left was this question.

First: « Respect his wish! ».

Now: « Have you heard of Mr Solo, recently? »

Illya Kuryakin peered at the coffee table. On the wooden tray, there was a key. A key he had got out of a drawer. From instinct, in his office, he had looked in this drawer, picked up the key, slid it in his pocket. Now, the key was on the table.

-Have you heard of Mr Solo, recently?


	5. Chapter 5: Breakfast time?

Fifty ways to escape from a Thrush cell. At least.

A partner's help sure was the most effective, when, of course, you had yet a partner.

_I don't know how to escape from here._

Napoleon Solo lay on a comfortable bed, in a high-ceilinged square room - he knew it was square, he had counted the tiles.- with a broad window. He would have prefer a less classical type of furniture, but it was quite nice.

_Nobody can get ou of here._

The faint light, through the curtain, was the sign that the sun was rising. He closed his eyes, waiting for the now usual bell signalling the breakfast time.

Illya Kuryakin found himself again in front of Napoleon's door. Because it was still Napoleon's door. The apartment had not been sold. It had not been rented.

-Have you heard of Mr Solo, recently?

An obsessive question. Nevertheless, the manager had answered without raising an eyebrow. No, he had not. Apparently, Mr Solo had cared about his mail. Someone was coming, once a week, for the housekeeping. It was not always the same person.

He gazed dubiously around him, but there was nothing to be noticed. He opened the door. The lock had not been changed. He had feared – hoped? - that. He stood in the doorway. Finally, he took some steps forward.

The apartment was exactly the same. It was tidy, clean. It smelled good. It was lively. Not a museum, not an abandoned place. Someone lived there. Illya Kuryakin shrugged his shoulders; he was out of his mind. The apartment was cleaned, aired once a week. Once a week? How strange, anyway! He headed for the familiar kitchen. It was tidy, clean and it smelled good. It was lively. He head the fridge. Amazing, in a desert apartment. More amazing: the fridge was stuffed with food, milk... Fresh food, fresh milk. Stupefying.

Napoleon Solo sighed, as he heard the bell. He had to get up. He wasn't tired, though he didn't sleep well. But he felt bored, bored to death. He had nothing to do. Book? Yes, he had read books, he had listened to music. Strolls? He sneered at himself. A prisoner didn't stroll. He was a prisoner. This was a cell.

With a great effort of will, he sat straight and stretched himself, like a cat. A very old, very stiff cat, he thought. His partner would tease him when... His partner? He felt a little dizzy and closed his eyes.

He had been locked in awful, frightening places. Darkness, dampness. Rats, and various disgusting creatures. He had been beaten, tortured.

This cell was diabolical. It was so different. It looked like an ordinary bedroom. And it changed. Napoleon Solo knew that for sure. The room changed. More exactly, they drugged him, and took him from a cell to another, in order to delude him, to fool him. It had happened several times. At least, three. Four? He could not tell. The rooms were amazingly stuffed with a personal touch. They were not anonymous hotel rooms. Wherever he found himself, it was always comfortable, clear, nice and pleasant. Room? It was not only a room. It was a sort of apartment. Once again, he could not remember precisely, but he knew that he had been in bathrooms, in kitchens. Always inside, however.

Usual Thrush cells were silent. Deadly silent. Hopeless. Those were not. He heard birds, voices, footsteps. He heard the distant sounds of the street, of the city. What city? He didn't know. Sometimes, he heard people, next to him, but he never saw anyone. He never talked to anyone. The last person he remembered was... Napoleon Solo rubbed his temples, his eyes still closed. No one had come for him. No one would come. His partner must have been looking for him. He always did. And he always rescued him. Apparently, this time, he had failed, and given up. But the dark haired man trusted himself. He trusted his own skills. His own luck.

Alexander Waverly. The last person he had talked with was Alexander Waverly. Section 1, number 1 of the N.Y. Uncle HQ. And he felt suddenly aware that something strange was going on. He was thinking. He was putting his memories in order. He was remembering, well trying to remember facts, what happened.

He felt conscious, clear-minded. Light-headed, dizzy, but lucid. Uncle, Thrush. Illya Kuryakin, Alexander Waverly. A mission. He was a prisoner? He had to escape. He would succeed. He opened his eyes, defiantly., and frowned. The room had changed again. It was now really familiar. He knew the place, this bed, this furnishings. He was at home. This was his own bedroom. Or – and he shook his head with disbelief – a very alike bedroom. Probably a new trick. In order to fool him, again and again. But apparently, he had got used to their drugs. He was able to realize, to analyze, to plan. Of course he had to play his part. Play his part?

Illya Kuryakin stared thoughtfully at the kitchen. Coffee, water, mugs. It was ready. Ready for use. He smelled the coffee. Fresh coffee. And automatically, he started to boil the kettle.

* * *

-_I am sorry to say that, sir, but really, that's a rotten business. We have to tell Illya about ut, and..._

_-No, Mr Solo, no. Our Thrush friends won't be fooled so easily. You partner's reactions will be watched, studied._

_-But Illya is a born-actor..._

_-No, Mr Solo. I'll tell him that you have resigned, that you have left the Uncle. Period. He'll probably look for you, of course, and you'll have to play your part._

But all hell broke loose. Napoleon Solo's undercover mission had been off a good start. They had thought so. Then the contact had been broken off. For all that Waverly could imagine it was not a very good sign. Napoleon Solo had disappeared. However, the Old Man hesitated. Perhaps everything was okay. He could not take such a risk. So, he had sown a seed, just a seed, in the Russian's mind.

* * *

A delicious and familiar smell. Coffee. Coffee? Napoleon Solo looked around, and didn't notice anything strange. Except for that he was somewhere like his home, he didn't know why, he rubbed his chin and his cheeks. He would have to shave, of course. A one-day beard. He was angry, normally angry. A delicious smell, and familiar noises. Wherever he was, he was not alone. If some one was preparing his breakfast... The Uncle agent mechanically slid his hand under his pillow and froze. It was preposterous. Expecting to get his gun in a Thrush cell was preposterous. Finding the said gun was ... Napoleon Solo remained wordless. He had been about to laugh at himself, but he held his gun, and it was loaded.

Illya Kuryakin leaned back against the wall, sipping his coffee, when he heard someone walking. Very careful footsteps. Someone approached on tiptoe. But the Russian smirked. He was sharp eared. He put silently the mug on the table and got his gun.

-What the hell...

-are you doing...

-here?


	6. Chapter 6: Check!

Illya Kuryakin stared at the familiar silhouette. It was Napoleon Solo himself, obviously getting out of bed, barefoot, and taking aim at the visitor. He looked like the usual Napoleon. He was fine, perhaps a little suspicious. Well, more than a little.

The Russian felt amazed, relieved, delighted. All at the same time. No more anger, no more doubt, no more fear. He was relaxed. Questions could wait. He smiled faintly: Napoleon had kept his gun. As a keepsake? He laid down his own weapon, slowly. It wouldn't be any use.

Napoleon Solo stared at the familiar silhouette. It was Illya Kuryakin himself, obviously amazed - amazed? - and taking aim at thim. He looked like the usual Illya. He was fine, perhaps a little tired. Well, more than a little.

Napoleon Solo felt amazed, too. He felt uncertain. Was Illya here in order to rescue him? Surely not. He felt dubious. Every detail matched: the blond locks, the blue eyes, the features, the slender frame, the casual dress, the ring... This man was obviously Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon Solo frowned. He was really alike. But he was not Illya Kuryakin. Logically, he could not be. Napoleon Solo had been abducted by Thrush. He had been their prisoner for... weeks, probably. For all that he could guess, he was still their prisoner. He remembered the cells, and he knew for sure that he had not escaped. Neither on his own, nor with his partner's help.

This blond man was drinking coffee. "_I come for you, but I 'll have my coffee first!_" Napoleon Solo had noticed the mug on the table. The guy had looked so astonished. _"Oh, you are here?"_Now, he smiled. Faintly, but he smiled, obviously relieved. Why? Because Napoleon Solo had not shot him? Not yet. He was really smiling, now. A perfect imitation of Illlya's rare delighted smiles. Those men were evil. This one was devilishly good, but he was a fake. Just a fake.

_Oh, yes, boy. Lay down you gun, and smile, smile. What are you doing?_

Illya Kuryakin put his weapon on the table, slowly, carefully, and took some steps back. The crease, on Napoleon's forehead, his black, ice-cold gaze didn't worry him. Napoleon Solo had left the Uncle, he had resigned. Whatever the reasons. He heard noise, and woke up. As a well-trained professional, he had grabbed his gun. Just in case. He had found his ex-partner in his kitchen, drinking coffee. Napoleon was angry. He was rightly furious. It didn't matter, however. Illya Kuryakin would apologize. He stopped smiling and stared at his friend.

Oh, Illya's poker face, now? No, he did not fool him, anyway. Napoleon Solo was ready, on the alert. He hesitated. He could shoot the man, right now. He could play the game, their game. Shooting the fake in cold blood would not cause him to lose any sleep over it.

And Illya Kuryakin shivered. It was not fear, it was an overwhelming horror. He read his friend's eyes. He knew this look. His ex-partner, Napoleon Solo, his closest friend was about to shoot him, in cold blood. He dint' read anger, he read hatred, despise. Apologize? No, this man just wanted to kill him. The Russian sighed. He stood some chances of getting his gun back, and of shooting Napoleon. Some damned good chances. He would probably be injured, but he could shoot his... opponent. Napoleon Solo was a marksman. But Illya Kuryakin was a little quicker. It was not presumptuousness, it was reality.

Of course, he would never do that, whatever the price. Napoleon knew it. He hoped that Napoleon knew it.

Napoleon Solo couldn't help smirking. The blond fake was worried. That was not very Illya! He had realized that the prisoner was not drugged, and that Napoleon Solo was the one who held the gun. Of course, Illya Kuryakin would have got some good chances of picking up his weapon and of shooting him. Illya, yes. Not that fake, with his arms dangling, trying to hide his fear. Powerless.

-They asked me...

Napoleon Solo stiffened, raising an eyebrow. The voice was perfect, the intonation, too. But the fake was giving up. He was a hired man, an actor out of work. « _They asked me to delude you. Please, don't kill me! _». The blond man took a deep breath and went on, ignoring the scornful look.

-They asked me whether I had heard of you, recently, Napoleon.

This man was a damned good actor, eventually. Voice, intonation, accent. He looked so genuinely concerned! Napoleon Solo took mentally his hat off to the guy, but he suddenly remained open mouthed: the blond man had picked up ... his mug, so quickly! It might have been his gun, all the same. Now, he was sipping the coffee, with a grimace. Napoleon Solo's finger had quivered on the trigger, and the man was innocently sipping his coffee!

-Lukewarm.

Illya Kuryakin hated lukewarm drinks, vodka, tea or coffee. The man was not frightened. Napoleon Solo himself was taking aim at him, ready to shoot him and the guy did not mind. He drank his coffee, leaning back against the sink, his gun now really out of reach. He was a sitting duck, and he did not mind.

-Who asked you that?

It was a whisper, a faint hissed whisper, but Illya Kuryakin applied himself to hide his relief. Napoleon agreed to talk. He distrusted him, obviously, but he agreed to talk. His friend did not look that fine, the Russian realized it, now. His eyes were bloodshot, his features drawn. Whatever the situation, Napoleon Solo knew that he could trust to him to save the day. But something had happened. Napoleon Solo was not mad at an irksome ex-partner. He was fighting for his own life, against a merciless enemy.

-First, a Thrush bird, Napoleon, a few days ago. And yesterday, Waverly. The Old Man, himself. Exactly the same words. « Have you heard of Mr Solo, recently? ». Would you like some coffee?

Napoleon Solo gulped. Illya? The Illya fake? What about a Thrush bird? Alexander Waverly? The young blond was staring at him, worried and resigned, almost desperately resigned

Illya Kuryakin looked down at his cup, and turned back to put it in the sink. It could me a mistake, a fatal error of judgement. He had to convince this man that he was not his enemy. Napoleon Solo was hesitating, but still on the defensive.

-I am sorry, Napoleon. My apologies for all that trouble.

He took some steps forward, pointed an inquiring hand at the gun. Napoleon Solo, puzzled, didn't move, still aiming at the guy, however. Slowly, Illya Kuryakin got his gun, and put it back in its holster. He walked towards the living room, still at an arm's length, both his hand in sight, and disappeared.

Napoleon Solo cursed, and shook his head. He should have followed the blond man! He had been stupid! He came up to the doorway, silently. As he was about to crane forward, a shot startled him. A shot, and a familiar muffled sound. A body falling limply on the floor. He raced in the room. In a blink of an eye, he saw his partner's body lying on the floor, bloodstains, two smirking men. He heard another shot and felt a twinge of pain in his neck. A hoarse voice, behind him, as he was passing out.

-Tststs, Mr Solo, you can't be trusted, really!


	7. Chapter 7: Pieces of memory

The blare of a car brought him back to life. He opened his eyes, looking around, and sighed with relief. He was in his bedroom, in his apartment, at home. It had been a dream. A nightmare, an horrible one, though he hardly remember it. He could see the daylight through the curtains. Morning? He sat straight in order to get up. Too hastily. Error. He sank back immediately onto the pillow, and closed his eyes, trying to convince the walls, the furnishing, the objects to stop twirling around.

_-He is still alive. Shall I finish him off?_

_Words. They came to him. He heard them, put them together, until it made sense. The voice was hungry. Almost... ravenous. This man, whoever he was, looked really eager to kill him._

It must have been a dreadful night. He steadied his breath. A few minutes later, he opened back his eyes, applying himself to sit slowly. He felt better, except for that headache, and some stiffness in his neck. A result of his last assignment. His last assignment? Logically. But what had happened, exactly? He wasn't sure. He sedately got up and made his way towards the bathroom.

_He should have rolled over. He knew it. He should have shot the men. He could get his gun, discreetly, and shoot them. All he had to do was to slide his hand under his jacket, and to grab his weapon. All he had to do. Those were words. Those were ideas about which his mind was thinking. His brain gave orders. His body ignored them. He felt the floor under his fingers, but his hand refused to obey._

_He was thirsty. Desperately thirsty._

Reflected in the mirror, he looked at the face in front of him, and sighed. He recognized this face, strained, unusually pale, his eyes slightly bloodshot. He must really have had a dreadful night. He had to shave, no need to rub his chin to know that. He did, however, and froze. He stared at his hand, his wrist in the mirror. He saw blood, dried blood on his hand, on his cuff. Because – he realized it – he was fully dressed: pants, shirt. The said shirt stained with blood. He checked. He wasn't injured. Something had happened. He didn't know what, he didn't know when.

-_No, Mr Kuryakin..._

_Someone was approaching. He heard his shoes. Suddenly, the man kicked him, not violently._

_-... is done. Help us with the other._

_The other ? His partner. Where was Napoleon? A warm liquid ran under his lips._

Napoleon Solo went back in the bedroom. The first thing he saw was his jacket laying around, and next to it, his gun. He stiffened. He could come back home exhausted, injured, beaten. He could lie down with his pants and his shirt. He hung up his jacket in the closet, and slipped his gun under his pillow. His rules.

But he was at home. Home was a safe place. So, he sneered at himself, and bent forward to pick up the offending jacket and the gun. Hastily. Too hastily, and things started to twirl around, again. He stood straight, closing his eyes, breathing slowly.

A few minutes ago, when he had waken up, everything was fine. He knew who he was, where he was. He vaguely remembered a nightmare, a frightening one.

He was Napoleon Solo, the CEA, Section 2, Number 1, of the N.Y. Uncle HQ. Was he? Of course yes. Del Floria's shop. Alexander Waverly. Illya. Illya Kuryakin, his partner, his closest friend, too. It was clear. But he was unable to define precisely what had happened the night, the day before. He opened his eyes and came up to the living room. When he pushed the door, he stopped, facing an indescribable mess.

_He could not roll over. He could not move his hand. He could not take hold of his gun. What could he do? He could breathe, hardly. He could think, more or less. He was thirsty, again. He did not hear anything. Were they gone? Where was his friend? Open! Perhaps his eyes would obey_.

A limp bloody body lay down on the floor. Some blond locks, stained with blood tumbled onto his face. Napoleon Solo cursed; forgetting headache and dizziness, he raced to his friend and knelt next to him. Illya.

Alexander Waverly peered at his agent.

-You looked tired, Mr Solo. You should get some rest.

Napoleon Solo turned to his superior. Tired? He did not remember having done anything, but he was tired. Exhausted.

-I am fine, sir.

-You are not. The doctors are taking care of Mr Kuryakin. It's no use you being here. He'll need you later.

If he survived. Napoleon Solo sighed. His friend was fighting for his life. The dark haired man looked blankly at his shirt.

-I was sleeping. In my bedroom. And Illya was laying down, in the next room. Dying. I don't know what happened, sir.

Alexander Waverly kept silent. Napoleon Solo felt uncomfortable, but he had to be honest.

-I don't remember anything, sir. What happened yesterday? There is a blank. What was Illya doing there?

Alexander Waverly hesitated, but his agent's honesty deserved an honest answer.

-Yesterday? No, Mr Solo. There is a blank, a gap in time. About three months ago, I assigned to you a very special mission. An undercover one. We set up a story, you played your part, and I played mine.

About three months?

Napoleon Solo was abashed.

-Your part, sir?

Alexander Waverly explained, slowly, almost reluctantly.

-You had resigned. You had left the Uncle. I had to convince everybody, here. Especially Mr Kuryakin. Unexpectedly, he just acknowledged the fact. But I knew that he was endeavouring to make up his mind.

The Old Man went on explaining. Napoleon Solo was barely listening, however. He tried desperately to remember. In vain.

-Six weeks ago, I lost contact with you. You were probably in trouble, but I couldn't take any risk. I put Mr Kuryakin on the track.

Alexander Waverly paused.

-I asked him whether he had heard...

-of me, recently.

Alexander Waverly frowned, but kept silent again, knowing better than to break his agent's memories. His eyes twinkling, Napoleon Solo bent forward.

-He told me about you, and... and about a Thrush bird, who had asked the same. We were in the kitchen. But I can't remember when, sir.

_Whether I had heard of you, recently... _Napoleon Solo closed his eyes. He saw his friend, sipping coffee, he heard his voice.

He saw other things. His friend's gun, on the table. His own hand, holding his own gun, taking aim at his partner. That, he could not tell. He leaned back on his seat, and peeped at the Old Man. Waverly was lost in thought.

-Whatever happened, Mr Solo, we'll discover it. Don't worry.

Don't worry? He worried. About his partner, about himself. He rubbed his neck.

-Mr Solo, you need some rest. You had some tests done. We'll wait for the results. I'll let you know about Mr Kuryakin. Consider that as an order.

Napoelon Solo gave up. Obviously, his superior didn't point the fact. He stood up and went away.

He refused to eat or to drink anything, and the nurse left him alone, with a compassionate smile. He would not sleep. He could not. He was shivering, not with cold, not with fever. He was angry. Furious. His memories were like the lost pieces of a dilapidated jigsaw: those pieces told him that he was probably the one who had shot, perhaps killed his friend. He felt worried, frightened, but not guilty. Whatever he had done, he knew for sure that something, someone had maliciously led him to do it. He trusted Illya as he trusted himself, and he knew that it was a mutual trust. More than trust, absolute confidence. He could have shot his friend, but though he could not remember, he surely had struggled with himself, with the drug.

The drug? He had been drugged. He did not feel guilty. He felt furious with Thrush. And terrified. His partner was fighting for his own life. The bullet had hit him in the back, but did not go through. It was somewhere in his lungs, next to his heart. What hell was the drug which could have had him shoot Illya Kuryakin in the back?

He could not believe it. In his guts, he could not.


	8. Chapter 8: No feelings

A hand tapped gently on his shoulder, and he realized that he had fallen asleep. The nurse was smiling. Nurses smiled, very often. Smiling was reassuring, but Napoleon Solo knew better than to be fooled by this particular one. He froze, looking at the sad face. Her eyes were glistening. He grabbed her wrist, roughly, and he had been probably rougher than he wanted to.

-Illya? Illya Kuryakin? How is he doing? Tell me!

The young woman's features creased with pain and he released his grip.

-Mr Waverly will come to tell you.

She turned on her heels and went away. Napoleon Solo sat straight on the cot, abashed, stunned. He had fallen asleep, in spite of all that had happened, and...

Alexander Waverly stood in the doorway. The Old Man was suddenly really very old. He looked gloomy. The « You're-expendable! » man was obviously overcome with grief.

-Sir?

Napoleon Solo hardly recognized his own voice.

-I am sorry, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin didn't make it.

Waverly was probably speaking, but again Napoleon Solo didn't hear any more. Eventually, he hissed a question, a very stupid one, he knew it.

-Are you sure, sir?

Alexander Waverly sighed. He came up to him, sitting down on a chair, next to the cot.

-A few years ago, we have seen to it that Section 2 agents would not get married, unless, of course, they leave the Section 2. A family, that's to say a wife, a husband, children, is a target. They mean useless risks. They are a weakness. And, Mr Solo...

Alexander Waverly lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

-Announcing to a wife, a husband, to children that the man, the woman they love is dead... We managed to rule out that. Artificially, but we did it We put « love » in parentheses.

The Old Man paused, to stare at his agent.

-But friendship, apparently, is our failure.

As an Uncle agent, you were able to work on your own. But a partner was a plus factor. Someone who watched your back. Someone to whom you entrusted your life. Mutual trust. Absolute confidence. Team. Friendship. Almost family.

-We are expendable.

Napoleon Solo's voice sounded bitter. Waverly shook his head.

-Yes, Mr Solo, you are expendable. All of you. I assign dangerous missions to my agents. Mostly, because they are well-trained, because they are so brilliant young men and women, they fulfill their assignments. Sometimes, they don't. And that doesn't please me, Mr Solo. Never. I hope you know that.

Napoleon Solo couldn't help sneering.

-Dangerous missions? Illya went to my apartment, he was looking for me. A very dangerous mission, really.

The Old Man bit his lips, frowning.

-You have been drugged, Mr Solo. Heavily. I think that our Thrush friends had set up an evil plan.

Alexander Waverly leaned forward, and put his hand on his agent's arm.

-We think that they wanted us to suspect you.

-Suspect me?

The agent's voice was amazingly faint. No burst of anger, no offended tone. Alexander Waverly looked deeply in Napoleon Solo's eyes.

-A diabolical put-up job, Mr Solo. The blood on your hands, your shirt, the gun... You could be Mr Kuryakin's murderer. But, you know, I am sure you are not. None of us, here, could believe that.

Napoleon Solo shrugged his shoulders, but didn't yield to the temptation. It would be use telling anything to his superior. Later. Not now.

-I want to see him, sir.

-Of course, Mr Solo, of course.

He lay on a cot, and he looked asleep. Soundly asleep. Pale. Deathly pale. His blond hair were unusually dull, rough, lifeless. Napoleon Solo carefully stroke them, as if his friend would get up and claw his eyes out. Straw. It felt like straw.

Napoleon Solo took some steps back. He forced himself to concentrate on the slender body. Illya. His partner, his closest friend. The dark haired man had been expecting to be overwhelmed with grief, despair, at least sadness.

Nothing. He had no feeling.

His friend lay in front of him, dead, and Napoleon Solo did not feel anything. This man was a stranger. Illya Kuryakin was his friend. That was a lifeless body. He sighed and reluctantly touched his partner's hand. Cold.

Napoleon Solo had lost partners. He had lost friends. None of them closer than this man. He had mourned for them. That body did not arouse anything. Not even anger.

He went out the room, composing his features, acting as he was expected to. People looked at him, tapped him on his shoulder. He looked grim, obviously desirous of being left alone. He could not go home. His home had been investigated, cleaned. It was a safe place again, but he coud not come back there. Not now.

Alexander Waverly looked thoughtfully at a file. Napoleon Solo was back. Illya Kuryakin was dead. The Old Man had lost count of the number of times one of them had been missing. Whatever he ordered, he knew that the agent he had in front of him would manage to get back his partner. This time, Napoleon Solo would not be able to bring his friend back. He would not flinch. He would not collapse. He would go through with his partner's death. Or he would not.

Alexander Waverly valued his agents. All of them. Equally. Among them, however, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were apart. The first time he had met the older agent, he had acknowledged this young man, showing so much promise. And he had not been disappointed. Illya Kuryakin. The young Russian was... had been what some of his fellows had called his « pet subject ». He wanted to have a Russian agent. He had managed to get one. To get this one. He had argued, insisted. The young blond man was Napoleon Solo's perfect match. They added their common skills, and compensated the other's shortcomings. A very efficient team. Two brilliant agents. Two young men he appreciated. And two friends.

Thrush would pay dearly for that.

Napoleon Solo went back to his office, still puzzled. He thought that when he would see Illya's desk, covered with papers, files, pens, his heart would race. That reality would eventually hit him.  
Nothing.

When he had seen the nurse's face, when he had heard Waverly's words, he had felt lost, worried, blank. Now, he was at a loss to explain it but his sadness, his worry had faded. He was not denying his friend's death. He had seen his body, obviously Illya, obviously cold, lifeless. And... nothing.

From the instant he had stared at his partner's body, he had not felt anything but indifference.

_He could not roll over. He could not move his hand. He could not take hold of his gun. What could he do?_

_He realized that he didn't need to roll over. He was lying on something hard, but softer than the floor of Napoleon's living room. He could hardly feel his fingers, his arms, his legs, but when he tried to move, a searing pain flashed through his back. Even breathing hurt. He ordered his eyes to open, and at his surprise, they obeyed. No use, anyway. Wherever he was, it was absolutely dark. Was he dead? He didn't think so. Not yet, anyway._

_He could think, more or less. He was always thirsty and he did not hear anything. Where were they? Where was he? And where was his friend? He attempted again to move, in vain. His gun had been taken away, of course. He concentrated again on a new objective: speaking. Napoleon lay perhaps somewhere, next to him, in this darkness. He had to make contact with him, but he was so thirsty._


	9. Chapter 9: Deaf ear mood

Someone had knocked shyly and a head had craned forward.

-Mr Solo?

_Of course, Mr Solo! You see me, you know me, and I am alone!_ No, this young man didn't deserve such rudeness.

-Yes?

-Mr Waverly would like to see you.

_Mr Waverly « would like »?_ He sneered discreetly. Things were not going well. He nodded and made his way to the Old Man's office.

Alexander Waverly was sitting in front of a file. He held an envelop which he handed to his agent. Without a word. Mechanically, Napoleon Solo tore it open, unfolded the sheet of paper and read the first line. With an impassive face, he folded back the letter and slipped it in his pocket.

« _If you are reading this letter, it means that I am probably dead... _»

Alexander Waverly had stared at him. He pointed his finger at the envelop.

-There is a key of Mr Kuryakin's apartment. He wished that you...

-I know.

Yes, he knew. He would have to go to Illya's apartment, and he would have to sort his belonging.

-Take all the time you need, Mr Solo. Concerning Mr Kuryakin...

The Old Man looked unusually worried. He kept silent for a few seconds.

-I'll let you know.

Napoleon Solo nodded and walked towards the door. As he was about to go out, he turned to Alexander Waverly who was still staring at him.

-It's a last will letter, sir. Do you know what he wrote? « _If you are reading this letter, it means that I am probably dead.._. » Probably? And I am told to be the optimistic?

And he went out.

Alexander Waverly sighed. He was not sure that Napoleon Solo would make it eventually. He peered at the photo, on the file. A concentrated, almost impassive face. Despite his efforts, however, the blond man, with his blue eyes, looked incredibly young.

It was a mystery, far beyond Waverly's understanding. This innocent looking young man was a professional, an excellent agent. And they had killed him. They had shot him in the back. They had not given him a chance. Waverly closed his eyes, seeing again the Russian's body, a sort of waxwork, disembodied.

Alexander Waverly was used to... well, to talk to his dead agents. To some of them. Nobody knew it. Oh just some words. A memory, a greeting, a thank, occasionally, a blame. And he had things to tell to this young man, but he had been, amazingly, unable to speak. It was not sadness, it was not emotion. Suddenly, talking to this body had been inopportune, untimely. He had sighed, looked again at the familiar features, and gone out.

* * *

The smell of the place was as he remembered it, and everything, there, was familiar. Of course, he lectured himself. He was the one who had disappeared for three months.

Illya.

Illya had left his apartment the day before, in order to save the world. In order to look for his partner. In order to die, perhaps shot by the said partner. And finally in order to be this impersonal body lying in this room, at the Uncle HQ.

He banged his fist again the wall and a pile of books fell down. He heard it, and smiled. He could hear Illya's offended protest. He would not waste time in picking them up. What use, now?

_« I am probably dead... _» Yes, yes, you are, my friend.

Napoleon Solo had written the same letter. The same first line. Except for "probably". Illya had no family, there, but his partner. His friend. Those last will letters were like talismans. Written, and never to be read.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin gave up His mouth was parched with thirst. He could not say anything. He could just have moaned, and even that wasn't easy. Moaning asked much. Too much. Breathing was more important.

He was alone.

When he had stepped across the doorway, he had been concentrated on Napoleon's reaction. The living room bathed in daylight. He knew, he hoped that his friend would follow him, that they would talk, that he would take him back to the Uncle. He knew that Napoleon would not shoot him.

He had been careless. He had heard a shot, felt an impact, and fallen down.

Thrush had been there. He had not seen them; He had not heard them.

Now, where was he? Where was Napoleon? By an effort of will, he explored his chest and his waist with his fingertips. Dressing? He was not in an hospital. No devices, no help, no light.

They had shot him, and then they had dressed his wound? His hand slid down on what felt like a cot.

He felt thirsty, and cold.

Napoleon had not been surprised to see him.

He had been suspicious.

Coldly suspicious.

Not afraid. The Napoleon's look when he faced... an enemy.

But he had not shot him. Of course, not.

* * *

Napoleon Solo sat down on the couch and closed his eyes. He felt guilty. An amazing guilt, however. He should have been shattered.

Illya.

What had been his friend's last thoughts? Incredulity? Anger? Worry? Grief? Probably...

« _I am probably dead_... »

He got up, his eyes wide open. Whatever he tried, he could not. He had seen the body. He remembered the scene. He could not believe it. For no reason. He could not recall anything clear except his own hand holding his own gun; aiming at Illya. Then, Illya's body, obviously dying. And he had frozen. He had raced to his partner, horrified. He had done what he had to, efficiently.

Gradually, he became aware that he had been out of his mind, out of himself, for two months. Alexander Waverly had assigned to him an undercover mission. He didn't remember that. He did not remember anything. But all hell had broken loose. His « cover » had blown up. And he had fallen into the enemy's clutches, for weeks.

He had not been beaten, tortured, starved. He had been drugged. No memory. No memory, except... cells. Changing places. Illya, in front of him, with his mug. His own hand... Then, Illya's body on the floor. He could not believe it, but the Thrush drugs were very effective. He was alive, back to the Uncle. What have they done to him? and the most frightening thought: what had he been programmed to do? He was a different man.

He cursed, picked up the books, put them where they belonged. He took some steps back looking at his work. He felt a little better.

* * *

-Sir?

-Yes, Doctor?

Alexander Waverly was waiting. The other man looked embarrassed. He cleared his throat.

-First, sir, you have to know that Napoleon ... Mr Solo, had been heavily drugged, on a regular basis, for weeks.

A silence. Alexander Waverly was still waiting. No comment, no question.

-We'll need time to clear him of it.

Alexander Waverly replied impatiently.

-I didn't expect him to be back on duty tomorrow, Doctor.

A flat voice, hardly encouraging.

-Of course not...

A new silence. Alexander Waverly sighed.

-And?

The doctor shook his head, then, he leaned forward and spoke in a suppressed voice.

-I can't say it for sure, yet, sir, but Mr Solo could be the one who shot his partner. Of course he is not to be blamed.


	10. Chapter 10:The game is not over

A silence again. Waverly took a puff at his pipe. Then, he leaned forward, too, and spoke with the same suppressed voice, looking deeply in the man's eyes.

-Doctor, I want you to listen attentively. You treat our agents. You save their life. You know every inch of them.

He paused to make sure that the man was fully attentive. _But there are things beyond you abilities._ Of course, he could not say that. He went on.

-You might be right. Or not. That's obviously our enemy's purpose. So whatever has happened...

The Doctor nodded, faintly smiling. Anyway, he turned back to attack. His sens of duty was strong, and he couldn't give up.

-Mr Solo doesn't remember anything, sir. Whatever has happened? It doesn't matter. Whatever could happen... might be a problem. Mr Solo has probably been brainwashed, sir. He is back to Uncle, and he... I am sorry... he represents a risk. A real one. I can't assure you that he...

Alexander Waverly raised his hand, still impassive.

-I take note of you advice, Doctor. We'll care about it.

-But...

The Doctor stopped and cleared his throat. The Old Man was in his "deaf ear" mood.

-Mr Kuryakin had been taken to the mortuary, sir.

* * *

-Oh, our young guest is apparently awake!

He must have slept, or passed out. As he had been taught, he knew better than to open his eyes. The voice sneered ironically.

-Tststs, Mr Kuryakin, stop being so childish! You have regained consciousness, I know it. So spare us that fuss, please. Open your eyes.

There was light, now. He could feel it through his eyelids. Reluctantly, he obeyed. His sight was blurred, though the light was quite dim.

-That's better! Welcome among the livings, Mr Kuryakin!

The Russian tried to turn his head to the voice, but it was too difficult.. Obligingly, the sneering man came closer, and bent over him. Illya Kuryakin blinked. This one could have had THRUSH tattooed on his forehead! He was in his fifties, and looked at him with an obvious delight.

-So, how are you doing, Mr Kuryakin?

Polite words, concerned, unctuous tone, and ironical face. The Russian didn't even try to answer. Anyway, he could not. The man sighed.

-Oh, I am so sorry! I neglect all my duties! Look at those parched lips! Of course, Mr Kuryakin, you are thirsty, aren't you?

Illya Kuryakin stiffened, but something white, damp, exquisitely damp moistened his lips. Such gentleness was very unusual from a Thrush henchman.

-Easy, young man, easy. I'll give you some water, soon.

It didn't fool the Uncle agent. There was such a discrepancy between the man's kind words, his considerate acts, and his cold, malevolent face.

-So, Mr Kuryakin? How are you doing?

The Russian took a light breath and croaked a whisper.

-Where is my partner?

The man burst into very unpleasant laughter.

-Oh, yes, Mr Kuryakin. Your partner...

* * *

-Napoleon! Shouldn't you be at home?

Napoleon Solo put his finger on her lips.

-I have to talk to Mr Waverly, Lisa. Immediately.

The secretary sighed and smiled sadly. Napoleon Solo's privilege...

-Mr Solo! Shouldn't you be at home?

Alexander Waverly frowned at his secretary. The young woman muttered an apologize and went out.

-So, Mr Solo?

The dark haired man sat down and started to speak. He had to tell all. All? That meant the very few things he remembered. He had to do it, nevertheless.

Alexander Waverly listened. When his agent stopped talking, he simply raised an eyebrow.

-And, Mr Solo? You have been drugged. Whatever happened, you couldn't do anything. You know that, so do I. You tell me that you could be the one who shot Mr Kuryakin? That's possible. And what?

-And I can't go on, sir; I am sorry. This is my resignation.

Alexander Waverly harrumphed and banged his fist against the desk. His pipe bounced.

-You can't recall having shot your partner, can you?

-No, but...

Waverly's icy look forced him to stop.

-You don't recall. Well. You could have done it, Mr Solo. But remember, that was a malicious trick. A Thrush plot.

The Old Man stared at him.

-Honestly, Mr Solo, honestly, Napoleon, what do you think?

-I was taking aim at him, and...

-Honestly!

Napoleon Solo looked deeply in his superior's eyes. He didn't read any pity, any compassion. Waverly wanted him to tell the truth, the real truth.

-Honestly, I can't imagine having done that. I am sure, and it's illogical, that if I had...

Waverly tore the paper into pieces.

-We have to even things up, Mr Solo. They have to pay for what happened. You are going to take some rest. Then... you'll do your job.

Napoleon Solo shook his head.

-I beg to differ, sir. I am sorry, I can't. You know the game: they had me for a long time. I have been drugged, but not tortured. They didn't want me to give away anything. They wanted me ... to do something. Illya ... Illya is dead. I am alive. If they have killed him, they could have shot me, and they didn't. It's very in our enemy's tradition to brainwash a prisoner, and to use him as a weapon against his friends. You can't trust me anymore.

-Is that all, Mr Solo?

The Old Man stared at his pipe.

-I am quite aware of that, Mr Solo. Apparently, you, too. That's encouraging. So, we'll be careful, and attentive. But I have no intention of playing their game. So, you'll get some rest. I'll see you later.

* * *

The Thrush man was almost giggling. Illya Kuryakin looked daggers at him. In vain.

-Your partner? Don't worry, Mr Kuryakin. He is alive, and quite fine. Though...

The man bent forward; the Russian could feel his breath on his temple. He tried to turn his head, but he could not. The voice whispered.

-Poor Mr Solo is mourning. He is mourning his partner gone. Such a terrible loss.

The man' hand casually stroke the blond hair. Illya Kuryakin choked, struggling to escape. The man smirked, reluctantly stopped the offending gesture and went on.

-Everyone, at the Uncle HQ, is mourning for you. Their so, so precious Mr Kuryakin...

A new croaking whisper.

-What...?

Illya Kuryakin was puzzled.

-But... I am not... dead... He won't... believe... He'll...look for me.

The man smiled brightly.

-Oh, no, Mr Kuryakin. You know, we took all the time we needed. You remember the Uncle hospital mortuary? Your body lie there. A young, blond man, a almost perfect duplicate. Your friends didn't check, of course. Evidences... Grief... Uncle agents are so soppy...

-You are...

-Evil? Yes, Mr Kuryakin. And icing on our creamy cake, your Mr Solo is overwhelmed with both his own guilt and the others' suspicion.

The Russian clenched his lips.

-Oh, yes, Mr Solo believes that HE has killed you! I have to thank you, Mr Kuryakin. You've been quite helpful. Of course, some others think that he is the one who has shot you. Poor Mr Solo, mourning and distrusted...

Suddenly, the man grabbed Illya Kuryakin's shirt and pulled him up ruthlessly, dragging a groan out of him. His eyes twinkled with hatred. He shook him like a rag doll. The voice was harsh.

-And you, Mr Kuryakin, as you see, you are still alive. It's painful, isn't it? Painful, yes, but you'll survive. We'll see at it. The game is not over.


	11. Chapter 11 : A broken chain

Illya

Kuryakin staggered, out of breath.

The man had ruthlessly pushed him back on the cot, and the Russian had passed out.

He was alone again, apparently. When he emerged from the shadows, the man was gone.

He was in an amazing place. It seemed to be a cube, with a door and a window. A clean, tidy room bathed by the daylight. Not a cellar. An unusual Thrush cell. The curtains flew softly, and the Russian felt the fresh breeze on his face. How strange! Was this window open?

He was probably dreaming.

The air smelled good: grass and sea. Yes. The sea. He felt this breeze and he heard a regular rustle. Waves. So close. And seagulls.

He had managed to get up, painfully, and now he was staggering towards the window, out of breath.

They were looking at him.

He knew it.

He was wearing himself out, and they would come. They would pin his arms behind his back, throw him on the cot, and laugh at him.

A torment of Tantalus.

Anyway, he would go on. He walked one step after another. This room was so huge.

* * *

« _... Shall I finish him?_ »

Napoleon Solo woke up with a jump. He had eventually come back to his apartment, and gone to bed. This voice had startled him.

He steadied his breath, and closed his eyes. He heard this voice, those threatening words. Frightening. _« Shall I finish him? ». _He saw a scene. Blurred. Narrow. Two silhouettes dragging a limp body. Blond hair. Illya? And another voice. They were three. Napoleon Solo concentrated on the words; What had he said? Something about « _the other _». His vision was clouded, and everything disappeared. « _The other_... » Who were those men?

* * *

Napoleon Solo, the Doctor and Alexander Waverly were sitting at the round table.

-Was it a memory, Doctor? Or one more delusion?

The dark haired agent looked at him inquiringly; the Doctor was studying his notes. He raised his head.

-It was a dream, Mr Solo. A nightmare. No, listen. You didn't remember it, when you woke up, except for some very clear, very precise details. Then, you have apparently been able to get back some other pictures, some other sounds. It was a dream, but your memories induced it.

Alexander Waverly commented soflty.

-At least, we can have for sure, now, that there were other people in Mr Solo apartment.

Napoleon Solo replied bitterly.

-But it doesn't prove that I have not shot Illya.

Waverly sighed impatiently, and ignored the comment.

-« _The other _». Who is this « other »? Probably you, Mr Solo.

Napoleon Solo shrugged his shoulders.

-I want to remember; I want to know what happened, and why they let me alive.

* * *

Alexander Waverly had simissed the two men. Obviously embarrassed, the Doctor had sneaked away. Napoleon Solo sighed. What the hell was wrong with him? The drugs didn't matter. He would have to cope with the Thrush malicious plans, brainwashing, or whatever else.

He had work on his own for a few years. Alexander Waverly had insisted – and when Waverly « insisted », you had no real choice – on his being partnered with the new agent, the blond Russian. Asking his friend's advice or – he smiled at this thought – getting his advice, asked or not, having Illya beside him... It was part of his life. It was his life.

He missed the presence. He missed Illya.

But he was not mourning for him. As if – and he was really out of himself – as if he was about to see him back. Cursing, he made his way towards the mortuary.

* * *

He was not sure that he would be even able to make one more step, but the wall was there. And the window. It was open. Yes, it was. He felt revived. He pulled the curtain aside, and gave a gasp of surprise. The ocean. A sand beach, some rocks and grass. He leaned out, carefully: he could easily jump out. There were no guars. He sneered at his naivety. Of course, there were guards. _The game was not over_.

Taking some steps back, he looked around. He wore pants and a shirt, but he was barefoot. No shoes. He would manage! And he turned to the window.

Too fast. He felt dizzy, again, and could have done with some rest. He could sit down, on the floor, and close his eyes. for a few minutes.

It was a trick.

Whatever he would attempt to do, they would laugh, take him back, and laugh again.

It was no use to play their game.

But Illya Kuryakin was a player.

They gave him an opportunity.

It would be a rotten one.

But he had to push his luck.

Clenching his teeth, he managed to slip out, awkwardly. His back hurt, but not so much. He would cope with it. Leaning against the wall, he indulged in warning himself up by the sunlight. Such a blissful feeling.

His hands were shaking. Looking at them, he noticed bitterly that he still had his ring: Thrush were honest villains, eventually.

* * *

Illya. This was Illya. Undoubtedly. Of course, he thought. This impersonal face missed the light of the blue eyes. The familiar medal was faintly blinking in the dimly lit mortuary.

« I am sorry. »

And he went out.

He was sorry, so sorry. Sorry to be so cold, so indifferent.

Back to his office, he picked up the file Waverly had given him. It was about the mission. This undercover mission. Some memories to glean, he hoped.

* * *

Walking hurt. Walking was an ordeal. He tried to breathe steadily, but not too deeply. Breathing hurt. More than anything else.

Where was he going? As far as possible, from this place, until his tormentors would come and take him back.

* * *

Napoleon Solo combed his hair with impatient fingers. He had read, read, and read again. He would be able to recite it, but he still didn't remember anything about this damned mission.

Someone was knocking. He sighed, got up and opened the door.

-Mr Solo?

Shhhh, Napoleon. Easy.

-Yes?

The young man held an envelop.

-What is this?

-We have cleared and got your apartment tidy, sir.

-Yes, I know.

Was this man fishing for compliment? For thanks? It was quite amazing and quite untimely.

-We found that next to your entrance. I need you to tell me if it's yours. If not, it might belong to one of the...

Napoleon Solo opened the envelop and emptied it in his hand. Then, he clenched tightly his fingers around what had dropped in.

-Sir?

-That's mine. Thank you very much.

-But...

-Thank you.

Napoleon Solo closed the door, and leaned back against it. Then, slowly, he unclenched his fingers.

A chain.

A broken chain.

A medal.

_They had found this next to his entrance?_

This was very familiar. This was Illya Kuryakin's medal. It was slightly scratched, worn.

The chain and the medal were in his hand.

* * *

He would not look behind. He had walked for hours. For minutes, at least. He staggered, he tottered. He was soaked with perspiration and he shivered in the breeze. He would reach the beach, soon. Then, he would walk towards the rocks. Until they would come, and drag him back to his cell.

* * *

Alexander Waverly heard voices, and his door was flung open. Napoleon Solo stormed into the office, followed by a dishevelled Lisa.

-Mr Solo?

Napoleon Solo walked to the desk. He held something, and looked totally appalled. Alexander Waverly frowned, but motioned his secretary to go out. Reluctantly, Lisa obeyed.

-What is this about, Mr Solo?

The dark haired man unclenched his fist, and dropped something on the desk, in front of the Old Man.

-This, sir, this is Illya Kuryakin's medal. I know it. I can swear that it is his chain, and this is his medal. Our « housekeeping » team found it next to the entrance of my apartment.

Alexander Waverly stared at the medal. He looked perplex. Then, he raised one eyebrow, the other, opened his mouth. He peered at Napoleon Solo. His CEA was smiling. A triumphant smile. Amazingly, Alexander Waverly smiled, too.

-This is Mr Kuryakin's medal, and the chain is broken. So ...

He pressed a button.

-Lisa? The mortuary. Immediately.


	12. Chapter 12: Mind the Sandman

A ring, a chain and a medal. Brand new.

Alexander Waverly stared at them as if they were venomous insects. The jewels meant hope, but they proved that people, at the Uncle HQ, had been careless. Time, precious time had been wasted.

-They did not check.

« They ». Doctors and nurses. Illya Kuryakin was seriously injured. Mortally. The blond man was Illya Kuryakin. Obviously. The same blood group. They had treated him. They had fought to save his life, and they had lost him. So, no, they had not checked. It had not been one of the top priorities. They had not checked. And Alexander Waverly knew that they were not to be blamed for that.

The ring, the medal were brand new, but none of them had even looked at them. Illya Kuryakin usually wore a ring and a medal. The blond body wore a ring and a medal.

-I'll have to get it mended.

Napoleon Solo's statement broke the silence. The dark haired agent was studying the broken chain. He looked relieved, relaxed. He looked to be back to himself.

-We'll go on the assumption that Mr Kuryakin is alive.

-Of course, he is, sir.

-Alive, but in their clutches, Mr Solo. They went to great lengths to make us believe that your partner was dead. They gave us a dying man. We concentrated on that. It was very clever.

Alexander Waverly paused, thinking about the amazing situation. Napoleon, with a faraway look, played with the broken chain.

* * *

Walking in the sand, barefoot, was both an ordeal and a blissful feeling.

It was smooth, floppy, warm. Lacking in consistency, treacherous.

The dazzling sunlight became suddenly unbearable. He blinked, and finally closed his eyes, groping his way along. Feeling the warmth on the sun on his body, shivering with cold, anyway.

One step. One more.

_-A very stubborn man!_

_The younger man handed the binoculars to his fellow. The other peeped at the small silhouette and sneered._

_-Very stubborn, yes, and very stupid. What does he expect?_

_-Do you want us to take him back?_

_-No, no! Let him walk, let him exhaust himself trying to escape._

_-But..._

_-The game is fixed! Wherever he'll go, it won't be any use. But as you say, he is a stubborn man. He won't give up the fight._

_-But he could die!_

_-It's a possibility, but I don't think so!_

_The man looked at his chief, puzzled._

_-You insisted that we would abduct him! All those tricks, all this trouble, sir! We kept Solo for months, we created a replica of Kuryakin!_

_The older man smiled coldly. He tapped on his man's shoulder, gently, but the other startled, anyway._

* * *

Napoleon Solo waved his hands towards the door.

-It seems to me that rushing down to announce that Illya is alive might be dangerous, sir. For him.

Alexander Waverly nodded.

-We fell in their trap for awhile, but now we could try to take advantage of the situation. Officially, Mr Kuryakin is dead, his body lay in the mortuary. Officially, you, Mr Solo are on leave. Those who know about this will have to go on mourning for our young Russian.

Napoleon Solo hesitated, and whispered.

-It was a strange feeling, sir. One can disguise his appearance, his voice, the way he walks, his habits, his postures... But not everything. Not every time. At one moment, something fails. Of course, a living fake would not have deluded us.

Napoleon Solo bit his lips. The Old Man stared at him.

-When I saw Illya's body – what seemed to be Illya's body -, I felt ... nothing. Really nothing. No sadness, no mourning. He was a stranger, to me. I know that it's quite incredible.

Alexander Waverly, smiling faintly, replied softly.

-A friendship induced feeling, Mr Solo.

Was he serious? Was he teasing him? Napoleon Solo could not be sure. Alexander Waverly displayed his innocent air.

* * *

_-I would prefer Mr Kuryakin to survive as long as possible. It would be more interesting. But, eventually, he'll die, as you know it._

_-But..._

_The hand squeezed the shoulder, ruthlessly._

_-I don't expect anything from him, except for some entertaining show. Mr Kuryakin and Mr Solo are very old « friends » of mine._

_The younger man felt uncomfortable. So, this was not exactly a Thrush operation. His chief was taking his revenge on the two top Uncle agents. A highly private revenge._

* * *

They took pleasure in looking at his vain efforts.

He knew it.

But the smallest, the least significant step he made gave him a comforting feeling of victory.

How stupid!

Perhaps he could win.

And he sneered.

It was not the torment of Tantalus. It was the rock of Sisyphus.

_You know for sure than you can't do it._

_You can't roll this rock up the slope._

_You can't expect you enemies to be so negligent._

_But you know that if you succeed, you'll be free._

_You'll leave the Tartar._

_You'll defeat your enemies._

_So, though you know that it's preposterous, hopeless, stupid, you try, and try again._

_He went on._

* * *

Good news? Yes, of course. The Doctor was obviously amazed, even disappointed. What he told them was really extraordinary. Nevertheless, the two men looked just thoughtful. Alexander Waverly took notice of his trouble, and motioned him to sit down.

It wasn't Illya Kuryakin's body. It was a fake, a quite perfect replica, thanks to some surgery. Icing on the cake, the Doctor had very encouraging results: there was no more trace of the drugs in Napoleon Solo's blood. Of course, neither the CEA nor the Section 1 Number 1 of the NY Uncle HQ could be expected to jump for joy, but a smile, a greeting?

-It is not an ordinary Thrush affair, Mr Solo. They wanted to compromise you. It was a very complicated plan, very clever. They could have killed two birds with one stone. You were compromised, you could have sho your partner, and you could have been brainwashed. And they got rid of Mr Kuryakin.

The Old Man glanced at the Doctor who knew better than to comment.

-They did not take advantage of the situation. But they could have, and we'll have to remember that. At the moment...

Napoleon Solo leaned forward.

-At the moment, sir, we have to find Illya.

-At the moment, Mr Solo, we have to think about our enemy's purpose, in order to find Mr Kuryakin.

The Doctor raised a hand.

-Those drugs induced some mental distractions, and amnesia. Some memories come back, anyway. We have to be patient.

Napoleon Solo looked daggers at him and hissed ironically.

-We have no time to waste in « being patient », Doctor.

-A revenge.

The two men turned towards Alexander Waverly. The Old Man waved his pipe at us.

-It doesn't sound like a Thrush plan. It might be a revenge. A private revenge. If I am right, indeed, we can't waste time. Mr Solo?

-Yes, sir?

-Didn't you tell me about your resignation? I am afraid I lost your letter. Perhaps you could give me another?

* * *

It was so comfortable. Smooth, floppy and warm. He felt better. Anyway, he had stopped shivering.

He grabbed some sand, and let it run through his fingers. Smooth. Comforting. He felt better. Sleepy.


	13. Chapter 13 : Game all

_Back to work since this morning, I'll have for some weeks less time to write. But of course I don't intend to abandon Cleopatra or Missing. Here is the long chapter 13._

_« He resigned! »_

_« Waverly fired him! »_

Why? Whose fault? Some rolled their eyes, some pouted. Was it a new trick? No, he had left Uncle. Really. Some felt like distressed, some were upset.

And Illya Kuryakin's funeral service would be a private ceremony? Why?

_« Mr Kuryakin's will »_ was the cold, flat answer.

Those who knew tried to disguise their hopeful relief, and their anxiety.

* * *

Napoleon Solo's resignation was quite a logical choice, and the Old Man's plan would probably work. As he was leaving the office, Alexander Waverly had held him back by the arm.

-You'll have to be careful, Mr Solo. The one who has thought up all that stuff must hold a tremendous grudge against you, and Mr Kuryakin. Killing both of you wasn't enough. Be sure that he won't let you enjoy your « retirement » a very long time. We guess that he will first try to abduct you. I hope that we are not mistaking.

Now he stood in his apartment, thoughtful. As he was leaving the HQ, he had been asked about _what the hell_ he was going to do. He had shrugged his shoulders, and gone on.

But it was an interesting question. If he had to leave Uncle, for real, what would he do?

Luckily, he would not have not to answer.

* * *

The older man cursed. The Russian had stumbled, once more and he had fallen down, amazingly slowly, theatrically. He lay on the sand. Was he faking? No, he was not.

Though the prospect of leaving him there could have cheered him, the prisoner would survive. But he prefered to play it safe. If he died, unfortunately... Oh, no. It would be too soon! And too easy! He nodded at his henchman.

_The color of this sand was very like his hair. He felt comfortable, here. Warmer. The sound of the waves was more distinct. Was the tide going in? He hoped that he wouldn't have to move. Breathing was easier._

The two men hurteld down the slope coming up to the limp body. One of them checked up, nodded, and waved his hand to his chief.. The man was alive. They carefully rolled the body over, trying to set him up on his feet. In vain. The taller man shrugged his shoulders, and hoisted the blond man onto his back.

The blond man didn't show any signs of waking up. The wound had been cleaned and dressed again, but the Russian looked still dead to the world. The older man bent over him and hissed harshly.

-Don't dare and die, Kuryakin. I warn you, I have not done with you, nor with Solo!

-Don't worry, sir. He surely won't die. He ran a fever, but I gave him something. He is just exhausted, and he'll sleep for one or two hours. Then, he'll be fine. The bullet had torn some muscles, and it's very painful. Luckily, it didn't hit his lungs. Why didn't they use some sleep darts?

The older man looked daggers at the other.

-I hope that he'll be fine, Doctor, I hope so. Some people had been overzealous. They paid for it. Have we got some news from the Uncle HQ?

* * *

Illya Kuryakin suddenly stiffened all over, blinked and opened his eyes. First he could hardly focus on what was around him. Clearly, it was not the beach. Then, he recognized his « cell ». His strengthes had failed him in the end. He remembered that soft, warm contact. Sand. Its color, and its salty smell, very precisely. Eventually, they had taken him back. Predictably enough.

Solo. Someone had said something about his partner. Looking around, he saw the shirt on the floor, and noticed that his dressing had been changed. He felt really better, he wasn't feverish, anymore. How strange! Such hatred on the man's face, in his voice! Such consideration in his acts!

They didn't ask him didn't kill him. Even, in some sort, they saved his life. At the moment, of course. No question. No logic. No consistency.

He smiled with delight: his mind seemed to work again, it was just stunning. His head was buzzing with memories, but it was more and more clear, more and more organized.

This was not an ordinary Thrush plan. As far as a Thrush plan could be ordinary. No, this one was malevolent, spiteful. Spiteful towards himself, towards his partner. Thrush plans were malevolent, but it was not their only purpose. This strange plot was malevolent, spiteful, complicated and ridiculously fruitless.

Illya Kuryakin was relieved. He was back to his old self. Of course, he felt tired. His back still hurt, when he moved. But he could think, rationally. This man, whoever he was, was employing Thrush resources, in order to achieve his own, personal aim. It was not a Thrush affair, it looked like to be a sort of private war. Solo. « I have not done with you, nor with Solo! ». Napoleon was alive, and free. Compromised? No, of course not. When he had faced his friend, in the kitchen, Napoleon was taking aim at him, about to pull the trigger, but the Russian could have told that he wouldn't shoot at him. Illya Kuryakin had trusted this man, from the first time he had met him in Waverly's office. Waverly? The Old Man knew Napoleon, he knew him so well. No, Napoleon was free, and...

His face clouded over. Illya Kuryakin was dead. His body lay in the mortuary. Could Napoleon really believe that he had shot his partner? He banged his fist on the cot. Reversing the roles, could **he** really believe that? A reasonable doubt. Would Napoleon be compromised? No. But mourning for him, feeling insufferably guilty, yes.

What were their enemy's intentions, at the moment?

As he felt the slight breeze, again, he sighed. So the window was still open? Of course, it was. The man felt omnipotent. Illya Kuryakin was in his clutches, absolutely powerless; the message was clear. It was no use to shut the window. He wondered whether the door was locked or not. It would be worth trying.

* * *

So, Napoleon Solo had left Uncle! Already? He had resigned, willingly, of course. Officially. Firmly encouraged to do so, probably. Waverly was a coward: "_Above all, let's avoid a scandal!"_. A resignation rather than a vague suspicion, and an uncertain investigation.

Well. Napoleon Solo was not, anymore, an Uncle agent. But the game was not over! Not enough trouble. Not enough grief. Not enough! Apparently, it would be time to bring together the two old friends, and to give the final party. Sooner than he had expected, and he felt disappointed. Uncle had infringed upon his rights. He lectured himself. First, the two men would pay for that, too. Secondly, he had taken liberties with his duties as a Trush senior executive. Whether his fellows hadn't taken any notice or had turned a blind eye to his schemes, he knew that he had already pushed his luck a bit. Illya Kuryakin's (official) death, Napoleon Solo's resignation were points in his favor.

Where was Solo, at the moment? At his home?

* * *

Footsteps. Illya Kuryakin closed his eyes, feigning sleep. Someone walked in the room – he had not heard him unlocking the door – and a dry and cold hand grabbed his wrist, taking up his pulse. Very considerate! The man sneered.

-Oh, well! You'll wake up soon!

It was the same voice. This time, it sounded ironical. The man went on, almost obsequiously.

-There is some food in the kitchen, and you'll find the bathroom, next door on the right, in the corridor. There are towels and fresh clothes.

The footsteps faded. What? What had he said? Illya Kuryakin blinked cautiously. The room was deserted, again, but the door was wide open.

Was he expected to escape again? He had feigned sleep, but it had not fooled this man. Again, the message was clear: « _I am omnipotent, you can do what you want, you won't escape_. » A tricky game.

Illya Kuryakin was a player. The game was fixed? So, he could rightly cheat. He managed to get up, sedately, and remained motionless for awhile, trying to fight a faint dizziness which faded quickly. He put on the shirt. He had a more assured gait, and could walk without staggering. The corridor was, of course, deserted. He took some careful steps on the right, pushing the door. It was the bathroom. There were the towels, the fresh clothes. Illya Kuryakin looked suspiciously at the shower. A shower was always interesting: steam? Gas? Poison? Acid? But it could be just water.

* * *

Napoleon Solo had never liked to use anyone as a bait. A bait was always at risk. Being the bait, however, was quite a new experience, which he didn't like, either. At least, he was not an innocent one. What would Napoleon Solo do, if he had to leave Uncle? He had to think about it, finally. He would leave this apartment, as soon as possible, and he would leave New York. Napoleon Solo started to set up his scheme. Illya's life depended on it, probably. It was a tricky game. Who could hold such a grudge against them? A powerful enemy, whose final purpose would be to kill them. First, luckily, the fool wanted to enjoy himself, first: drug, humiliation, delusion, angst... The dark haired man sneered: their enemy had just undervalued something. Friendship. True, deep friendship. And something else, perhaps. Luck.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin pushed the door, imperceptibly, and took a peep at the outside. It looked deserted, once more time; gradually, he craned forward.

He had explored every corner of the house. First he had taken a lot of precautions, walking on tiptoe, hugging the walls, looking for evil devices, sneaking into the rooms. The house could have been booby-trapped. Then, he had given up, stopping wasting time. He had visited a sitting room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen. It was unpretentious, but clean and tidy. And absolutely deserted. In the kitchen, the fridge and the cupboards were well stuffed.

He had not seen any guards. Not even the slightest trace of life. He was alone.

He went out, and walked slowly along the path. The same landscape: the sea, a beach, rocks. The weather was warm, the place beautiful, and deserted. Turning to the house, he considered it. It looked like to be a sort of holiday home, in some remote location. Very remote. Very peaceful. Very silent, except for the waves, the breeze and the seagulls. And something else. He heard a soft roaring, coming from the other side of the house. In a small cabin, he found himself in front of a generating set. The Russian stared at it thoughtfully, then, he came back to the path, still lost in thought.

* * *

Napoleon Solo had to give them opportunity. Simple. Eventually, the opposite of everything he had been taught. He had to be credible, too. Things couldn't be too easy.

The ringing phone interrupted his thought. A young female voice, obviously embarrassed, muttered something and hung up. It could be nothing, but the dark haired man was on alert.

* * *

As he walked, Illya Kuryakyn realized that he was hungry. Food? Why not? It could be drugged, but he didn't think so. It would be no use. Obviously, the enemy wanted him to be fit. So did he. He made his way back to the house, smiling bitterly, adding all the details: the sea, a beautiful but deserted beach, a generating set. And a relaxed enemy, so relaxed, so scornful that he was leaving his prisoner free. unguarded. He knew where he was, and it was not really encouraging.

An island. He was on an island. Close to the coast, probably, on the other side.

The enemies. Oh, yes, the enemies. He could not see them, but they were somewhere, here, watching him. They could be in the house, and in the blink of an eye, they were out of sight. He would have to look for that. They wanted him to be fit?

The blond man stopped, suddenly, staggering, rubbing his temples with his hands. Then he tottered towards the house, almost tumbling. Eventually, he sat down, leaning against the wall, his face wincing.

* * *

The phone rang again. The same young female voice. This time, she apologized and introduced herself. Mr Solo had came to the real estate agency, about his apartment. They needed some more information. Could he call in to the office, as soon as possible? Napoleon Solo grinned, and agreed. Of course, he could. In one hour?

So it was time to play. Napoleon Solo picked up his communicator.

* * *

The young Thrush guard frowned. What happened, yet? The man didn't look so well, suddenly! Kuryakin. Illya Kuryakin. Though he never met him, he knew who he was, and had he any choice, letting him die here wouldn't really matter. But he had orders. Of course, he was alone. He walked to the front door of the room, and went out. He looked up, hesitating. The three others had left the island; they wouldn't be back before the following day. The prisoner could manage on his own and his guard wouldn't have anything to do, except to keep a watchful eye on him. A watchful eye he had kept, and he didn't like what he saw. The Russian had explored the house, the cabin. He had looked fine.

The Russian agent took advantage of the moment. He was under scrutiny, he could feel it. His movements were tracked. There was no way, actually, to be certain, but all he had to do was to wait. They wanted him fit, so they wouldn't remain indifferent. His head fell back on his shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

He could call his chief, and asked for orders. He could go out and see. Calling for orders would be protecting the rear, and probably being scornfully scolded. Finally, they would tell him to go, to see and to report. And he would be the rookie lacking initiative. He shook his head, took a deep breath and checked his gun.

* * *

Napoleon Solo hissed. The charming young lady had warmly welcomed him, smiling, apologizing again for the trouble. She looked genuine. He had given the information, signed some documents, refused a cup of coffee – the young woman had chuckled and whispered that he was right, the coffee being really awful – and left the agency, puzzled and disappointed. Taking some steps along the sidewalk, he looked around; his instinct told him that some people were tailing him and he couldn't help sneering. The Uncle agents who were in charge of his safety watched over him. He walked towards his car.

The Uncle agents looked at each other. Napoleon Solo was getting in his car. Nothing had happened, and all they had to do was to follow him to his apartment. And all hell broke loose.

* * *

He didn't waste time in bolting the cellar trap door, and stepped out of the house. The Russian was obviously unconscious. Obviously? This man was Illya Kuryakin, an Uncle agent, one of the best. He was _apparently_ unconscious. His face was hidden behind his long blond hair. The guard stared at him, carefully. He could be a rookie, he wasn't so stupid. The Russian barely breathed; nevertheless, the man held his gun, ready, just in case. Coming closer, he raised his foot and gave a light kick to the limp body.

One man. Only one? He was close, and probably staring at him. Suddenly, he gave him a kick, taking immediately a step back. Well done. Illya Kuryakin could now peep at his opponent, through his eyelids. A young man, looking uncertain, worried. But he didn't call for help. He was undecided, aggravated, and alone, obviously left to himself. Now, he was cursing and muttering. Two hands grabbed him, ruthlessly.

The guard lay unconscious. Illya Kuryakin got up, wincing for real, this time. His back hurt, and he felt a little dizzy again. He managed to drag the body into the house, anyway, and bound him with his belt. A trap door was open, in the kitchen, hidden under the table. So, here it was. He checked the guard's bound and went down. The cellar was a replica of the house, underground. People lived there. In one room, he found screens, cameras, mikes, various electronic devices, weapons. And a phone.

* * *

-WHAT?

Alexander Waverly didn't harrumph anymore. He fumed. The others, in the office, hardy dared to breathe. Napoleon Solo had left the agency, he had got in his car. He was about to move off and they were ready to follow him. Suddenly, he had got out, run across the street, and jumped in a taxi.

-Under your nose? And what about the microphone?

They had listened to what had happened in the agency, with the woman. Then, nothing. One of them opened his hand, sheepishly.

-We found it in Solo's car, under his seat.

The Old Man stood motionless, staring at a file he didn't really see. Napoleon Solo had not been abducted. For some reason, he had escaped from his escort, willingly, jumping in a taxi, and taking advantage of the traffic. They had lost his trace, and he didn't answer the communicator. Willingly? Apparently he was alone. He had deliberately deluded his fellow agents, as if they were the enemies. Probably he had noticed something, and he would report to him. Or...

* * *

Napoleon Solo checked his watch, and sighed with relief. He wouldn't be late, eventually. He had told the taxi driver where he wanted to go. But just at the moment, he could not remember what he had said. But he knew he had to go there. He had it for sure. His mind went blank until a familiar beep startled him. This. He had to get rid of this. And he switched off the communicator. He felt really safe, even happy. .

The car stopped and the door open, softly. Someone was paying the taxi driver. Napoleon Solo slipped out and smiled brightly at the man who stood in front of him, with a perfect complacency.

A part of him was terrified. Really, completely terrified, for this part of him was the powerless inner witness of his madness. He followed the other man, no, he trotted behind him, and he did it with delight. He was eager to please him. A part of him followed the other man with horror. He couldn't help walking, smiling so stupidly. All he could do, he knew it for sure, was to cling to this grain of lucidity.

* * *

The ringing phone had startled him. His private phone? Alexander Waverly grabbed it, hopeful. Napoleon Solo. And the Old Man heard a faint voice. A very familiar voice, with a slight accent.


	14. Chapter 14: The die is cast

So, Napoleon had disappeared, once more time, under very strange and hardly believable circumstances. Illya Kuryakin rubbed his forehead. He felt a little dizzy again. Alexander Waverly was still talking, unusually garrulous. The young Russian frowned. He had things to report, but the Old Man's voice sounded worried. His young agent had not fooled him.

-How are you doing, Mr Kuryakin?

-I am fine, sir, really.

A logical question and a logical answer, necessary prelude to any further explanation.

The Russian closed his eyes. Perhaps he didn't need to listen.

-We are looking for you. As soon as we'll have located you, I'll send people to take you back.

No. No, they couldn't do that.

-Mr Kuryakin? How are you doing?

Alexander Waverly drummed mechanically his fingers on the desk. The specialists needed time, and the Old Man had heard this calm, but unusually dull voice, the delivery, slightly broken. For all he knew, his Russian agent had been injured, shot in the back. He was fine... His own words. The typical Kuryakin's answer: « I am fine. »

-Mr Kuryakin? Illya?

The Russian opened his eyes and replied.

-No, sir.

And he realized that his answer was not the right one. He gripped the phone tightly and forced himself to speak clearly.

-I am fine, sir. We have to be careful. This man wants to take a revenge.

Making short sentences helped him to steady his breath.

-He'll bring Napoleon here.

-We don't know, Mr Kuryakin. Mr Solo is perhaps following a trail and...

-No, sir. They had him for months, and they have probably conditioned him, in order to call him back. That's why they had « freed » him.

Alexander Waverly knew that he was right.

-What do you think, Mr Kuryakin?

-I have to get rid of the guard. Then, I'll be a good, obedient prisoner.

-To get rid of the guard?

-That's my part, sir.

* * *

Alexander Waverly felt so uncertain. The reinforcements were on their way to join the island. They had to wait Illya Kuryakin's signal... Or Waverly's one, if all hell broke loose. Waverly was not a pessimistic one; He was realistic, and worried.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin knelt heavily next to the body. He had not intended to kill him, but the young Thrush guard had managed to loose his bonds. He had tried to stun him. Though the Russian was injured, however, they were not evenly matched. The guard lacked experience. The Uncle agent sighed, grabbed his arms, and dragged the limp body, slowly, painfully, away.

They wouldn't find him. He closed the door, and leaned against it. The twilight gave way to the night. When would they come back? He had eaten, showered carefully, trying to keep the dressing dry, and put on fresh clothes. He felt better. Just a little.

They had Napoleon, again.

He hoped that his friend would do well; The enemy was obviously eager to settle a score with them. Why? It was a personal affair. They had defeated so many Thrush operatives, thwarted so many Thrush plots, and probably hurt or killed so many of their guys... Illya Kuryakin guessed that the man would choose the spectacular way, that he would gather them, in order to get his own back on the two Uncle agents.

His heart pounded in his chest, because he could be wrong.

The man could have changed his mind and chosen another way.

He could have killed his partner. An unpleasant thought.

He walked towards the kitchen, to check the underground rooms. He had erased the traces, but just in case... They would look for the guard...

* * *

Napoleon Solo tossed and turned on his seat. Earlier in the afternoon, something had happened, but he didn't exactly remember what. His head was heavy, his memory vague. The man sitting next to him was reading. Who was he? Suddenly, someone tapped on his shoulder, gently.

-Mr Solo?

Solo? Ah, yes, he was Solo. The man who talked to him looked quite serious, though he smiled. A concerned smile.

-Yes, sir?

« Sir ». The man, obviously, was someone he could, he had to address as « Sir ».

-Mr Solo, we have to talk about your mission.

Instantaneously, Napoleon Solo was back to himself. His mission. His prey.

-yes, sir. Where is he, now?

His superior frowned and peeped around, as if he feared that their enemy could hide himself in the car.

-For all we know, Mr Solo, he is on an island, next to the coast. His HQ is here, and he lives in what looks like a holiday house.

-But of course, it is not.

-Of course, Mr Solo. We'll leave you at the opposite side of this island. You'll have to be very careful, this man is dangerous, and...

Napoleon Solo smiled coldly, tapping casually on his holster. He sneered.

-I know him, sir. I know all about his tricks. But he'll be alone? Are we sure of that? It's amazing.

The other man raised a hand, waving it.

-A rare opportunity, Mr Solo. This night, you'll be face to face with him. I trust you, you know that. I am sure you'll fulfill this assignment, as usual.

Napoleon Solo nodded and looked again at the photo the man handed to him.

Such a familiar face, such an innocent face.

And such a dangerous villain.

-This time, Mr Solo... Well, I am afraid you won't like it.

Napoleon Solo raised an eyebrow. His superior was staring at him with concern.

This time, you'll have to get rid of him. I mean, definitely.

It was true. Well, he didn't like that. But killing this blond, blue eyed man would probably save the world, at least the peace of the world, and many lives. It was worth the price. He smiled and nodded gain, coldly.

* * *

A high-pitched beep startled him. Some lights were flashing on the wall, and a strip of paper appeared. Illya Kuryakin picked it, read it and couldn't help chuckling, bitterly. How amazing! He looked at the message again: so, the guard was supposed to reach the creek, and to leave the island, as soon as possible. The creek? Leaving the island meant that there was a boat, there. So, they wouldn't look for their guard. But why? They wanted him alone, on this island. Alone, until they would bring Napoleon here.

The man wanted a revenge. A spectacular and very personal revenge. An island, two preys... It reminded him of an old movie.

« The Most Dangerous Game »? Their enemy as the Count Zaroff? So, he was eager to hunt them? That was why he wanted him fit. It would be funnier. Yes, it would be funny. He had to report to Alexander Waverly.

* * *

-Sir?

Alexander Waverly had listened, and now kept silent. He didn't comment.

-Mr Kuryakin, you'll have to be careful. Perhaps, you should try to find this creek, and...

-No, sir! Of course, I'll be careful, but...

-No. Mr Solo... Mr Solo had joined them, willingly. Our reinforcements are on their way, but the others will be there before them.

Illya Kuryakin sighed bitterly. Yes, they would. Probably. And so, what? He was not an innocent defenceless creature.

-It is not what I meant, Mr Kuryakin.

Waverly's voice was unusually grim, urgent.

-You know that. Mr Solo... your partner might be out of his mind.

-I beg your pardon, sir?

The Russian was appalled. Waverly's understatement was so clear.

-Our enemy is evil, Mr Kuryakin. You'll have to be on your guard against him. And against Mr Solo.

-Sir!

-Remember: they managed to call him back to them, and he obeyed, willingly. Our Thrush enemy might have set up an especially malicious plan.

Alexander Waverly was wrong. Definitely.

Brainwashing.

Thrush had already used this trick against them, and they had failed. Always. At the very last second, something – he couldn't say what: a word, a voice, a look...- had broken the evil spell. Even if Napoleon Solo had been conditioned into believing that he was the enemy, it would not work.

Illya Kuryakin was not the optimistic one, but that... That, he knew. He knew for sure.

They had been face to face in his friend's apartment. Napoleon was taking aim at him, coldly, though he had put his own gun on the table. But he had not shot him, despite all, despite his obvious doubts, his fear. He had not, and he would not. He would never do that.

Trust. Friendship. Confidence.

For years, as a kid, in the USSR, during the war, as a very young man, later, he had turned down even the idea of trust. He trusted himself; he relied on himself. Period. He had fellows. No friends.

Then they had sent him to work for Uncle. Being a Russian, working for an international organisation, living in New York, in the US had been a challenge. A real one But Illya Kuryakin had left the matter to his old strategy. _Trust yourself, rely on yourself_. And he had met two men. A chief. A partner. He had found himself unable to turne down some very new, very amazing feelings. Trust. Friendship. Confidence.

Relying on someone else, and knowing that someone else was relying on you. It had been frightening. Terrifying. Exciting, and extraordinary.

He closed the trap door, and stared at the weapons he had picked up from the cellar. Of course, the boat in the creek could be a problem. They would see it, and... Anyway, he had no time for that. He would leave the house, and hid himself somewhere. Wait and see.

* * *

The small boat drifted slowly towards the coast anf finally beached on the sand. It was a very dark night. Napoleon Solo craned forward before sneaking out of the boat. This beach was deserted, and he couldn't see any light around. The Uncle agent sneered at the pleasant thought of the blond villain, soundly asleep in the deluding safety of his private island.

The villains could be efficient, brilliant. They were often pompous, full of themselves. This one was, too.

Napoleon Solo clenched his teeth. The man looked boyish, but he was a murderer, an abject, soulless murderer. He had killed his partner. His friend, his closest friend, in cold blood, like a coward.

Getting rid of him, definitely? It would be a real pleasure. As he was making his way towards the dune, he tapped again on his holster. He didn't intend to shoot the guy like that. Too easy. Too simple. He felt grateful. His superior had left this battle to him. He would take revenge on the guy. He owed his partner that.

* * *

The man leaned against the plating but he couldn't see the small boat any more. He stretched himself, staring at the dark shape of the island.

The scenery.

The two actors.

The plot.

The tragedy could begin. A tragedy, in the literal meaning: everything was written.

The Fate.

He went back to his cabin, and switched on the screen. The images were very dark and hazy, but Napoleon Solo was walking towards the house, and those camera didn't need that much light.

The die was cast.


	15. Chapter 15: Fifteen years later or

It was a beautiful night. Illya Kuryakin sheltered himself behind the dilapidated dry stone wall. Beautiful, but cooled by the sea breeze. He looked around. From this place, he could see the path leading to the house. A beautiful night. He shivered.

Napoleon Solo stopped and crouched down immediately. He sneered silently. So, this was his enemy's lair! An old fisher's house. No light, and complete silence, except for the rustle of the surf.

The blond villain, soundly asleep? Eventually, no. The Uncle agent knew the man. He had met him: yes, he was full of himself, but he was a professional, too. He was not to be undervalued.

Napoleon Solo's superior had asserted that he was alone. An opportunity? A trick. One of those damned tricks. The blond had protected the rear, of course. He was not asleep. The dark haired man knew it. He felt it. He felt his presence. The hunter's instinct. And he crawled silently towards a bush.

* * *

-What is he doing?

The older man looked daggers at his irksome henchman, who was staring at the screen. This was his privilege. He wanted to savour it. Alone. The other man hesitated.

-It's Wrenn, sir. He didn't call us.

He hissed, impatiently, but the man went on.

-He should have reached the coast, and...

-Enough! See at it on your own, and get out!

The young man stepped out sheepishly.

* * *

Cold. He was really cold, and dizzy, again. His strength failed him. Too many efforts. He had to rest, but he couldn't.

Napoleon Solo was looking for a safer post of observation. If he managed to crawl along the rocks, he could come up to the house, discreetly.

Illya Kuryakin gave a start. Someone was moving. Somewhere. Close to him. Very close. He stopped breathing.

Napoleon Solo cursed silently: he had sent some small pebbles rolling along the slope. He remained motionless.

Illya Kuryakin craned forward, carefully. Just below, there were some rocks. He had seen them. Despite the darkness, despite his exhaustion, his eidetic memory warned him. Something was different. And one of the rocks raised his head. The Russian whispered.

-Napoleon!

Napoleon Solo froze: the damned bastard was there, and he had seen him. He was getting out his lair. The Uncle agent didn't waste time. Rolling on himself, he shot at his enemy. Never mind!

* * *

Voices yelling, footsteps, people running. What the hell were they doing on the deck? Just at the moment, when the tragedy ... Shot. Shot? And the door was thrown open. What...?

* * *

It was as if he was swimming in soft, lukewarm, smooth water, without effort. He was probably drowning, but it was really pleasant. He felt water on his face, through his fingers. He swallowed water. He breathed water, without choking. He didn't need to breathe, any more. Was he dying? Was he dead? No. Someone was breathing for him. Someone held his hand, now. Tightly. Someone was leading him, somewhere, in a safe place, encouraging him, scolding him, gently.

They had got him out of the water. He was safe, but it was not so pleasant. It hurt. He was thirsty. Someone grabbed his hand, again, holding it tightly. Encouraging him, scolding him gently.

It hurt. He didn't feel any pain, but he knew that it hurt. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Opening his eyes would hurt. But someone was still holding his hand, tightly.

A familiar voice was talking to him. He could hear it. Someone was whispering things. Important things. The voice was trembling with emotion, concern. But he couldn't understand one word. Someone held his hand, squeezed it, and released it. He was leaving. He was gone.

Alexander Waverly stared at his agent. It was quite amazing. Laying there, so pale, his (too) long hairs dishevelled, spread on the pillow, he looked like a sick child.

-He'll make it, sir. He breathe on his own, now. He'll wake up, soon.

The Section 1, Number 1 nodded, and sat next to the bed. Illya Kuryakin would wake up soon. And as his superior and a little more than ... As his superior, Alexander Waverly had something to tell him.

Suddenly, he felt as if he was drowning. Sounds and odors were overwhelming him. Familiar sounds, and familiar odors. Those odors meant Medical. He stirred in order to escape from those unpleasant feelings, but a reassuring hand tapped on his own and he opened his eyes. Confident. Knowing whose relieved and smiling face he would see.

-Ssssir?

Alexander Waverly was smiling at him with relief.

-How are you doing, Mr Kuryakin? You worried us, you know!

He smiled with relief, but this scene sounded familiar. Déjà vu. Where was his partner? He stiffened and tried to sit straight.

-Shhhhh, easy, young man, easy. Don't move. Oh! You see? It hurts! I'll call...

-No! No, please...

His voice was hoarse, and his throat ached. He peeped around: of course, he knew those devices. Taking a careful breath, he looked at the Old Man, who looked still relieved and amazingly embarrassed.

-Sir, where is Napoleon?

Napoleon was fine. He knew that. He remembered that. So, where was he? Why the Section1 Number 1 himself was here, next to his bed?

-Well, Mr Kuryakin... I am afraid we have already had this ... conversation. Mr Solo... Mr Solo kept vigil over you.

The Russian had closed his eyes, just hissing.

-I know.

-As you were off the danger list...

The Old Man stopped, waiting for the young man to react. Illya Kuryakin remained silent, but finally opened his eyes.

-Mr Solo has left Uncle, Mr Kuryakin. And this is not a trick. He has resigned. Really.

The young Russian looked deeply in Waverly's eyes.

-Is that what he told me? I remember. I heard his voice, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. Sir? I must see him! I want...

-No, Mr Kuryakin, no. He has left New York. Really, this time.

Déjà vu. Desperately déjà vu. Alexander Waverly went on.

-He needs to go away, Mr Kuryakin. You must give him time. What he went through...

-I know.

The blue eyes looked at him inquiringly.

-Will he come back, sir?

-I don't know, Mr Kuryakin.

He wouldn't tell him. Napoleon Solo's fear, his guilt feeling. He had been about to kill his friend. In cold blood. Thanks to Illya's reflexes... he had just injured him. Thanks to Illya's stubbornness, he had regained his footing. But it could happen again. He had to go. Alexander Waverly had sighed, knowing that his agent, his ex-agent was right. Would he come back? The Section1, Number 1 cleared his throat, and leaned forward.

-Uncle needs you, Mr Kuryakin.** I** need you.

This voice sounded genuine. Illya Kuryakin nodded. He was officially the section 2, number 1. The CEA of the NY Uncle HQ. He would cope with that. Until Napoleon Solo would come back or... until Alexander Waverly would retire. Then...

Illya Kuryakin softly whispered.

-He thought that I was his enemy. That I had killed his partner.

Illya Kuryakin smiled at Waverly, a faint, sad smile, but a smile.

-But he couldn't tell me the name of this partner. I asked him, and he couldn't. He couldn't tell my name. He couldn't tell me his superior's name. Your name, sir. I asked, asked again.

Alexander Waverly smiled, too.

-I forced him to remember. I repeated his name, my name, and yours, sir.

-Again, and again...

-Did he tell you about that?

-Yes, he did. He told me about your stubbornness...

The two men remained silent.

-Will he come back, sir?

The Old Man shook his head.

-I don't know.

Fifteen years later.

Or ...


End file.
